The White Company, by Arthur Conan Doyle

Chapter 20

How Alleyne Won His Place in an Honorable Guild.

Whilst the prince’s council was sitting, Alleyne and Ford had remained in the outer hall, where they
were soon surrounded by a noisy group of young Englishmen of their own rank, all eager to hear the latest news from
England.

“How is it with the old man at Windsor?” asked one.

“And how with the good Queen Philippa?”

“And how with Dame Alice Perrers?” cried a third.

“The devil take your tongue, Wat!” shouted a tall young man, seizing the last speaker by the collar and giving him
an admonitory shake. “The prince would take your head off for those words.”

“By God’s coif! Wat would miss it but little,” said another. “It is as empty as a beggar’s wallet.”

“As empty as an English squire, coz,” cried the first speaker. “What a devil has become of the maitre-des-tables and
his sewers? They have not put forth the trestles yet.”

“Mon Dieu! if a man could eat himself into knighthood, Humphrey, you had been a banneret at the least,” observed
another, amid a burst of laughter.

“And if you could drink yourself in, old leather-head, you had been first baron of the realm,” cried the aggrieved
Humphrey. “But how of England, my lads of Loring?”

“I take it,” said Ford, “that it is much as it was when you were there last, save that perchance there is a little
less noise there.”

“And why less noise, young Solomon?”

“Ah, that is for your wit to discover.”

“Pardieu! here is a paladin come over, with the Hampshire mud still sticking to his shoes. He means that the noise
is less for our being out of the country.”

“They are very quick in these parts,” said Ford, turning to Alleyne.

“How are we to take this, sir?” asked the ruffling squire.

“You may take it as it comes,” said Ford carelessly.

“Here is pertness!” cried the other.

“Sir, I honor your truthfulness,” said Ford.

“Stint it, Humphrey,” said the tall squire, with a burst of laughter. “You will have little credit from this
gentleman, I perceive. Tongues are sharp in Hampshire, sir.”

“And swords?”

“Hum! we may prove that. In two days’ time is the vepres du tournoi, when we may see if your lance is as quick as
your wit.”

“All very well, Roger Harcomb,” cried a burly, bull-necked young man, whose square shoulders and massive limbs told
of exceptional personal strength. “You pass too lightly over the matter. We are not to be so easily overcrowed. The
Lord Loring hath given his proofs; but we know nothing of his squires, save that one of them hath a railing tongue. And
how of you, young sir?” bringing his heavy hand down on Alleyne’s shoulder.

“Sweet little coz!” answered the burly squire. “Such a dainty color! Such a mellow voice! Eyes of a bashful maid,
and hair like a three years’ babe! Voila!” He passed his thick fingers roughly through the youth’s crisp golden
curls.

“You seek to force a quarrel, sir,” said the young man, white with anger.

“And what then?”

“Why, you do it like a country boor, and not like a gentle squire. Hast been ill bred and as ill taught. I serve a
master who could show you how such things should be done.”

“And how would he do it, O pink of squires?”

“He would neither be loud nor would he be unmannerly, but rather more gentle than is his wont. He would say, ‘Sir, I
should take it as an honor to do some small deed of arms against you, not for mine own glory or advancement, but rather
for the fame of my lady and for the upholding of chivalry.’ Then he would draw his glove, thus, and throw it on the
ground; or, if he had cause to think that he had to deal with a churl, he might throw it in his face—as I do now!”

A buzz of excitement went up from the knot of squires as Alleyne, his gentle nature turned by this causeless attack
into fiery resolution, dashed his glove with all his strength into the sneering face of his antagonist. From all parts
of the hall squires and pages came running, until a dense, swaying crowd surrounded the disputants.

“Your life for this!” said the bully, with a face which was distorted with rage.

“If you can take it,” returned Alleyne.

“Good lad!” whispered Ford. “Stick to it close as wax.”

“I shall see justice,” cried Norbury, Sir Oliver’s silent attendant.

“You brought it upon yourself, John Tranter,” said the tall squire, who had been addressed as Roger Harcomb. “You
must ever plague the new-comers. But it were shame if this went further. The lad hath shown a proper spirit.”

“But a blow! a blow!” cried several of the older squires. “There must be a finish to this.”

“Nay; Tranter first laid hand upon his head,” said Harcomb. “How say you, Tranter? The matter may rest where it
stands?”

“My name is known in these parts,” said Tranter, proudly, “I can let pass what might leave a stain upon another. Let
him pick up his glove and say that he has done amiss.”

“I would see him in the claws of the devil first,” whispered Ford.

“You hear, young sir?” said the peacemaker. “Our friend will overlook the matter if you do but say that you have
acted in heat and haste.”

“I cannot say that,” answered Alleyne.

“It is our custom, young sir, when new squires come amongst us from England, to test them in some such way. Bethink
you that if a man have a destrier or a new lance he will ever try it in time of peace, lest in days of need it may fail
him. How much more then is it proper to test those who are our comrades in arms.”

“I would draw out if it may honorably be done,” murmured Norbury in Alleyne’s ear. “The man is a noted swordsman and
far above your strength.”

Edricson came, however, of that sturdy Saxon blood which is very slowly heated, but once up not easily to be cooled.
The hint of danger which Norbury threw out was the one thing needed to harden his resolution.

“I came here at the back of my master,” he said, “and I looked on every man here as an Englishman and a friend. This
gentleman hath shown me a rough welcome, and if I have answered him in the same spirit he has but himself to thank. I
will pick the glove up; but, certes, I shall abide what I have done unless he first crave my pardon for what he hath
said and done.”

Tranter shrugged his shoulders. “You have done what you could to save him, Harcomb,” said he. “We had best settle at
once.”

“So say I,” cried Alleyne.

“The council will not break up until the banquet,” remarked a gray-haired squire. “You have a clear two hours.”

“And the place?”

“The tilting-yard is empty at this hour.”

“Nay; it must not be within the grounds of the court, or it may go hard with all concerned if it come to the ears of
the prince.”

“But there is a quiet spot near the river,” said one youth. “We have but to pass through the abbey grounds, along
the armory wall, past the church of St. Remi, and so down the Rue des Apotres.”

“En avant, then!” cried Tranter shortly, and the whole assembly flocked out into the open air, save only those whom
the special orders of their masters held to their posts. These unfortunates crowded to the small casements, and craned
their necks after the throng as far as they could catch a glimpse of them.

Close to the banks of the Garonne there lay a little tract of green sward, with the high wall of a prior’s garden
upon one side and an orchard with a thick bristle of leafless apple-trees upon the other. The river ran deep and swift
up to the steep bank; but there were few boats upon it, and the ships were moored far out in the centre of the stream.
Here the two combatants drew their swords and threw off their doublets, for neither had any defensive armor. The duello
with its stately etiquette had not yet come into vogue, but rough and sudden encounters were as common as they must
ever be when hot-headed youth goes abroad with a weapon strapped to its waist. In such combats, as well as in the more
formal sports of the tilting-yard, Tranter had won a name for strength and dexterity which had caused Norbury to utter
his well-meant warning. On the other hand, Alleyne had used his weapons in constant exercise and practice for every day
for many months, and being by nature quick of eye and prompt of hand, he might pass now as no mean swordsman. A
strangely opposed pair they appeared as they approached each other: Tranter dark and stout and stiff, with hairy chest
and corded arms, Alleyne a model of comeliness and grace, with his golden hair and his skin as fair as a woman’s. An
unequal fight it seemed to most; but there were a few, and they the most experienced, who saw something in the youth’s
steady gray eye and wary step which left the issue open to doubt.

“Hold, sirs, hold!” cried Norbury, ere a blow had been struck. “This gentleman hath a two-handed sword, a good foot
longer than that of our friend.”

“Take mine, Alleyne,” said Ford.

“Nay, friends,” he answered, “I understand the weight and balance of mine own. To work, sir, for our lord may need
us at the abbey!”

Tranter’s great sword was indeed a mighty vantage in his favor. He stood with his feet close together, his knees
bent outwards, ready for a dash inwards or a spring out. The weapon he held straight up in front of him with blade
erect, so that he might either bring it down with a swinging blow, or by a turn of the heavy blade he might guard his
own head and body. A further protection lay in the broad and powerful guard which crossed the hilt, and which was
furnished with a deep and narrow notch, in which an expert swordsman might catch his foeman’s blade, and by a quick
turn of his wrist might snap it across. Alleyne, on the other hand, must trust for his defence to his quick eye and
active foot—for his sword, though keen as a whetstone could make it, was of a light and graceful build with a narrow,
sloping pommel and a tapering steel.

Tranter well knew his advantage and lost no time in putting it to use. As his opponent walked towards him he
suddenly bounded forward and sent in a whistling cut which would have severed the other in twain had he not sprung
lightly back from it. So close was it that the point ripped a gash in the jutting edge of his linen cyclas. Quick as a
panther, Alleyne sprang in with a thrust, but Tranter, who was as active as he was strong, had already recovered
himself and turned it aside with a movement of his heavy blade. Again he whizzed in a blow which made the spectators
hold their breath, and again Alleyne very quickly and swiftly slipped from under it, and sent back two lightning
thrusts which the other could scarce parry. So close were they to each other that Alleyne had no time to spring back
from the next cut, which beat down his sword and grazed his forehead, sending the blood streaming into his eyes and
down his cheeks. He sprang out beyond sword sweep, and the pair stood breathing heavily, while the crowd of young
squires buzzed their applause.

“Bravely struck on both sides!” cried Roger Harcomb. “You have both won honor from this meeting, and it would be sin
and shame to let it go further.”

“You have done enough, Edricson,” said Norbury.

“You have carried yourself well,” cried several of the older squires.

“For my part, I have no wish to slay this young man,” said Tranter, wiping his heated brow.

“Does this gentleman crave my pardon for having used me despitefully?” asked Alleyne.

“Nay, not I.”

“Then stand on your guard, sir!” With a clatter and dash the two blades met once more, Alleyne pressing in so as to
keep within the full sweep of the heavy blade, while Tranter as continually sprang back to have space for one of his
fatal cuts. A three-parts-parried blow drew blood from Alleyne’s left shoulder, but at the same moment he wounded
Tranter slightly upon the thigh. Next instant, however, his blade had slipped into the fatal notch, there was a sharp
cracking sound with a tinkling upon the ground, and he found a splintered piece of steel fifteen inches long was all
that remained to him of his weapon.

“Your life is in my hands!” cried Tranter, with a bitter smile.

“Nay, nay, he makes submission!” broke in several squires.

“Another sword!” cried Ford.

“Nay, sir,” said Harcomb, “that is not the custom.”

“Throw down your hilt, Edricson,” cried Norbury.

“Never!” said Alleyne. “Do you crave my pardon, sir?”

“You are mad to ask it.”

“Then on guard again!” cried the young squire, and sprang in with a fire and a fury which more than made up for the
shortness of his weapon. It had not escaped him that his opponent was breathing in short, hoarse gasps, like a man who
is dizzy with fatigue. Now was the time for the purer living and the more agile limb to show their value. Back and back
gave Tranter, ever seeking time for a last cut. On and on came Alleyne, his jagged point now at his foeman’s face, now
at his throat, now at his chest, still stabbing and thrusting to pass the line of steel which covered him. Yet his
experienced foeman knew well that such efforts could not be long sustained. Let him relax for one instant, and his
death-blow had come. Relax he must! Flesh and blood could not stand the strain. Already the thrusts were less fierce,
the foot less ready, although there was no abatement of the spirit in the steady gray eyes. Tranter, cunning and wary
from years of fighting, knew that his chance had come. He brushed aside the frail weapon which was opposed to him,
whirled up his great blade, sprang back to get the fairer sweep—and vanished into the waters of the Garonne.

So intent had the squires, both combatants and spectators, been on the matter in hand, that all thought of the steep
bank and swift still stream had gone from their minds. It was not until Tranter, giving back before the other’s fiery
rush, was upon the very brink, that a general cry warned him of his danger. That last spring, which he hoped would have
brought the fight to a bloody end, carried him clear of the edge, and he found himself in an instant eight feet deep in
the ice-cold stream. Once and twice his gasping face and clutching fingers broke up through the still green water,
sweeping outwards in the swirl of the current. In vain were sword-sheaths, apple-branches and belts linked together
thrown out to him by his companions. Alleyne had dropped his shattered sword and was standing, trembling in every limb,
with his rage all changed in an instant to pity. For the third time the drowning man came to the surface, his hands
full of green slimy water-plants, his eyes turned in despair to the shore. Their glance fell upon Alleyne, and he could
not withstand the mute appeal which he read in them. In an instant he, too, was in the Garonne, striking out with
powerful strokes for his late foeman.

Yet the current was swift and strong, and, good swimmer as he was, it was no easy task which Alleyne had set
himself. To clutch at Tranter and to seize him by the hair was the work of a few seconds, but to hold his head above
water and to make their way out of the current was another matter. For a hundred strokes he did not seem to gain an
inch. Then at last, amid a shout of joy and praise from the bank, they slowly drew clear into more stagnant water, at
the instant that a rope, made of a dozen sword-belts linked together by the buckles, was thrown by Ford into their very
hands. Three pulls from eager arms, and the two combatants, dripping and pale, were dragged up the bank, and lay
panting upon the grass.

John Tranter was the first to come to himself, for although he had been longer in the water, he had done nothing
during that fierce battle with the current. He staggered to his feet and looked down upon his rescuer, who had raised
himself upon his elbow, and was smiling faintly at the buzz of congratulation and of praise which broke from the
squires around him.

“I am much beholden to you, sir,” said Tranter, though in no very friendly voice. “Certes, I should have been in the
river now but for you, for I was born in Warwickshire, which is but a dry county, and there are few who swim in those
parts.”

“The river has been my enemy,” said Tranter, “but it hath been a good friend to you, for it has saved your life this
day.”

“That is as it may be,” returned Alleyne.

“But all is now well over,” quoth Harcomb, “and no scath come of it, which is more than I had at one time hoped for.
Our young friend here hath very fairly and honestly earned his right to be craftsman of the Honorable Guild of the
Squires of Bordeaux. Here is your doublet, Tranter.”

“Alas for my poor sword which lies at the bottom of the Garonne!” said the squire.

“Here is your pourpoint, Edricson,” cried Norbury. “Throw it over your shoulders, that you may have at least one dry
garment.”

“And now away back to the abbey!” said several.

“One moment, sirs,” cried Alleyne, who was leaning on Ford’s shoulder, with the broken sword, which he had picked
up, still clutched in his right hand. “My ears may be somewhat dulled by the water, and perchance what has been said
has escaped me, but I have not yet heard this gentleman crave pardon for the insults which he put upon me in the
hall.”

“What! do you still pursue the quarrel?” asked Tranter.

“And why not, sir? I am slow to take up such things, but once afoot I shall follow it while I have life or
breath.”

“Ma foi! you have not too much of either, for you are as white as marble,” said Harcomb bluntly. “Take my rede, sir,
and let it drop, for you have come very well out from it.”

“Nay,” said Alleyne, “this quarrel is none of my making; but, now that I am here, I swear to you that I shall never
leave this spot until I have that which I have come for: so ask my pardon, sir, or choose another glaive and to it
again.”

The young squire was deadly white from his exertions, both on the land and in the water. Soaking and stained, with a
smear of blood on his white shoulder and another on his brow, there was still in his whole pose and set of face the
trace of an inflexible resolution. His opponent’s duller and more material mind quailed before the fire and intensity
of a higher spiritual nature.

“I had not thought that you had taken it so amiss,” said he awkwardly. “It was but such a jest as we play upon each
other, and, if you must have it so, I am sorry for it.”

“And the none-meat horn has blown three times,” quoth Harcomb, as they all streamed in chattering groups from the
ground. “I know not what the prince’s maitre-decuisine will say or think. By my troth! master Ford, your friend here is
in need of a cup of wine, for he hath drunk deeply of Garonne water. I had not thought from his fair face that he had
stood to this matter so shrewdly.”

“Faith,” said Ford, “this air of Bordeaux hath turned our turtle-dove into a game-cock. A milder or more courteous
youth never came out of Hampshire.”

“His master also, as I understand, is a very mild and courteous gentleman,” remarked Harcomb; “yet I do not think
that they are either of them men with whom it is very safe to trifle.”